The Agony of the Sudanese Diaspora

Something awe inspiring is happening right now, right at this very moment in Sudan, as I type these words. Something that we could only speak to our pillows about at night, sending our flesh into goosebumps and causing all sorts of a frenzy in our systems when thought about. A blinding spark, started by none other than the ladies of the University of Khartoum. This spark may lead Sudan to unimaginable heights, and yes the road to absolute change will be dangerously tedious, and may die then sputter to life in a sporadic cycle, but again, the spark has happened! I think these words are in need of repeating because this is MOMENTOUS;

The Spark Has Happened

and am stuck here.

You are at the grasp of that climax only to be rudely shoved face down in a lukewarm bath of reality. To be stuck behind, BEHIND the frontline is a major blow to all those dreams of finally being able to wear Sudan’s flag as a cape, stand on some car, defiantly roaring slogans and inspiring one liners as tear gas is being shot and your gasping for air… yet am stuck here, racking my brain for some profound less than 140 characters, trying to spread  word on the movement to an apathetic world and jaded media.

And what’s even worse on the morale is the chocking atmosphere from older Sudanese generations who scoff at anything the youth decide to do, because in their minds we’ll never measure up to their glorious days of defiance. Add to the toxic mix  the sloth like naysayers who have a worse attitude than Eeyore. And the worst of the bunch are the silent ones, well the ‘were not so silent before the revolution, always had something witty and scathing to say about the current gov.’ but now are drastically mute. These same douchebags who spouted all this love and devotion so prettily but at the first signs of an actual change, took a not so elegant flight into the horizon of cowardice.

But the crown of this negative fest goes to the deft finger pointers who decide who is and is not worthy of the cause. Their argument goes, ‘since you are not there out in the streets of Sudan suffering the plight of the TRUE revolutionaries, well you have no claim to anything.’ And I won’t lie, because I had the same exact view… until I found myself at the other end suffering the agony of the Sudanese Diaspora with a severe rash of restlessness and vast bouts of guilt. It is a shitty.. shitty place to find yourself in, being tangled with roots of priorities and responsibilities that are impossible to simply shake off and go chasing your ideals and sense of duty for your Beloved… your home… your country.

And this I find the most detrimental to the cause. I find myself unable to move an inch from my computer or my phone, religiously watching my FB timeline and tweets. And if I should find myself tired, or hungry, or even bored I go on a self flagellating spree. How could I possibly DARE move to relieve my mind, my body when countless are suffering for ME? And then I continue down the paralyzing hole of resentment; resentment of my sex, resentment of my family and their lack of understanding, resentment of all these silent young Sudany hipsters who can change their profile pics in a snap but won’t post one damn thing about whats happening in their own country, resentment at the lack of media coverage, resentment at my own uselessness which leads me into a frozen state of non-action. Does it matter what I tweet, post, write, share, or take a picture of? Will my actions make any dent on this vast wall of fate?

Probably not.

And I could convince you otherwise with gorgeous words and flowery proclamations, put an itsy bandaid on this festering wound, but I cannot and won’t belittle the all too real struggle that is currently happening in Sudan which is garnering pitiful media attention leaving the world ignorant to a noble cause. (You were so quick to aim your cameras at death and mayhem but shrug and yawn at non-violent protests?)

So I sit here now, no where near making peace with me being here while my ideals are being fought for over there. And though I may grip my prayer beads a bit tighter, make longer duaas for all those out in the streets, being detained, or have been missing; I am terrified.

Because it feels like I am the one in the waiting room while God knows what is being done to my loved ones in the surgery room. Will you come out at all? Will you be safe? Will you come out the same? What parts of you will you lose and maybe will never regain? Will I have to repost images of your missing face? Will I have to write a less than 140 character eulogy? And as I tread the halls with apprehensive footsteps, I keep wishing ‘If only I’d slowed down to turn around and really looked at you, if only I’d hugged you harder, if only I’d spoken what was really in my heart instead of my head, if only’, if only.

If only.

This article was submitted by NubianQ, and was originally posted in her blog.

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